


The Fresh Start

by Telanu



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F, Fluff and Humor, Love at First Sight, Older Characters, POV Lesbian Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 11:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12653061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telanu/pseuds/Telanu
Summary: Grace and FrankieAU. The closet is ancient history, but Grace Hanson's future seems to shrink every day--until a chance encounter changes everything.





	The Fresh Start

**Author's Note:**

> This idea popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it down, so here it is! As always, thanks to Luthien for the beta read.

 

Starbucks was crammed as full as a sardine tin, which was why Grace Hanson was waiting in line at Friendly Bean and thinking about how much she hated lesbians.

Well, not all lesbians. They weren’t all bad. Not the ones like her, anyway, with their heads on straight, able to see past granola and free trade and to accept the value of a sensible, orderly life. The ones who didn’t think high heels and makeup were tools of the patriarchy. The ones who didn’t see anything wrong with turning quarterly profits.

Unfortunately, most of those lesbians patronized Starbucks, and Grace was in a hurry. So she was waiting in the shorter line at Friendly Bean, surrounded by earnest artwork, locally baked goods, and bead curtains. Surrounded, also, by women who kept giving her the side-eye, as if driving home the point that Grace was not well-liked by her own kind.

Honestly. She and Pat had parted ways over two years ago. The gossip should have run its course by now, but no. She was the Bad Example. She and her ex, who’d stuck together through decades of increasing coldness, going through domestic partnerships and civil unions and state-sanctioned marriages and every other scrap that came their way, until the Supreme Court laid down the law in 2015. Grace and Pat had looked at each other in sheer exhaustion and realized: not this time.

It was over. Another wedding? They might as well have held a wake. So they’d filed their papers and broken apart every binding contract they’d ever shared while the community looked on, appalled. Grace Hanson and Patricia Walford were capitalist sell-outs, to say nothing of stone cold WASPs, but they were an _institution._ They should have been first in line at the La Jolla courthouse wearing impassive expressions, same as always.

Instead, Pat was in Los Angeles with a woman nearly sixteen years her junior, and Grace was single, waiting in line at Friendly Bean. Which was not, it had to be said, very friendly.

 _“Grace,”_ a voice cooed behind her.

Grace winced. She was only three people back in line. So close to making a clean escape.

She fixed a smile on her face and turned around to see Julia, clad in jorts and a faded Sierra Club T-shirt. Hardly Grace’s favorite person. Not even in the top ten, ever since she’d shit-talked Say Grace in a letter to _Lesbian Connection_.

And now she was trying to give Grace a postcard.

“We were just talking about you,” Julia said. Over her shoulder, Grace saw Heloise, Laura, and Ifemuelo sitting together at a table clearly designed for two, all pretending not to eavesdrop.

“Were you,” Grace said.

“Yes. I saw you standing in line and said, ‘God, that’s Grace Hanson, haven’t seen her in a while,’ and decided I’d come over here and give you this.” She waved the postcard.

Grace took it and squinted at the black print on the screaming hot pink background. The text was just large enough that she didn’t have to pull her reading glasses from her blazer pocket. “SICK RHYMES!” it read. “Come join us for an evening of fun and frolics at Moonfyre Books while local women poets and writers share their work!” Below, in smaller print, it added: “Not an open mic night. Readings by invitation only.”

“It’s this weekend,” Julia said. “Like I said, we haven’t seen you around, and we just wanted to make sure...well.” She placed a solicitous hand on Grace’s elbow. “That you know you’re missed.”

Grace stared at her. Julia’s smile was kind enough, but there was glee in her eyes, Grace was sure of it. Julia had had it in for her ever since learning that Grace had contributed to Bob Rayford’s run for city council instead of Ellen Cossi’s, which was apparently some kind of treason. Who cared if Bob wasn’t the biggest advocate for gay rights? He knew how to fix a fucking water main.

 _Missed._ What Julia and her ilk _missed_ was the chance to ask Grace “what she was doing these days” and mention Pat’s latest photo album on Facebook, the one of her vacationing with her lover in the Maldives.

Forget it. “This weekend?” Grace plastered a smile on her face. “That’s _so_ sweet of you, Julia, but Brianna and I were--”

The bell at the top of the shop’s door tinkled, followed very shortly by a bang, an “oof,” and an “oh _shit,”_ in that order. Grace turned around.

A woman had her long, patterned skirt caught in the door, which she shoved open again before stumbling inside. “Dammit,” she muttered, brushed down her skirt, straightened up, and looked around the shop, ignoring all the stares and taking in the artwork.

She looked to be about Grace’s age--early seventies. Her baggy outfit, a blue peasant blouse and ankle-length black skirt, made it impossible to see her shape, but she had a full mouth, high cheekbones, and a mane of frizzy salt-and-pepper hair. The hair was pulled back just enough to reveal two bright red hoop earrings that matched her chunky necklace. Her face wore a thoughtful expression as she looked at the mobile dangling above one of the tables, a combination of brightly painted seashells and chandelier crystals. It wasn’t an idle glance; she was looking, thinking, taking it seriously in a way Grace couldn’t possibly manage.

Grace noticed, a little distantly, that her heart rate had elevated. That was odd. Maybe she didn’t need more caffeine after all. And maybe she should stop staring at a stranger. It was rude to stare, wasn’t it?

After a moment, the woman’s lips quirked, and she gave a half-shake of her head at the mobile as if dismissing it. Then she put her hands on her hips and frowned at a copper sculpture of a woman’s breasts that sat right next to the half-and-half. Still serious. Probably one of those types with no sense of the ridiculous. She’d be pretentious, looking at such an absurd piece as if it belonged in the Met--

The woman clasped her hands together as she looked at the sculpture. Then her mouth widened into the most luminous, infectious smile Grace had ever seen, a look of sheer delight. Her shoulders shook in a chuckle. Maybe she took copper tits seriously and maybe she didn’t, but either way, she loved what she saw. It lit her up from the inside out. What could have been a plain face on another woman transformed into pure radiance.

She tucked a stray strand of hair back to reveal a small, perfect ear. Chuckled again.

Time froze, and so did Grace. Her heart stopped. Started again, double time. Her fingertips tingled, probably because all the blood in her body had just left her limbs and rushed into her face.

And even as her brain yelled,  _Not your type,_ Grace's heartbeats began to insist:  _Gorgeous. Gorgeous. Gorgeous._

The woman began to turn around.

Grace spun away so fast she nearly wobbled, and focused on the postcard as if it were the only object in the room.

“Ooh.” Julia lowered her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “So she made it here.”

“She?” Grace asked hoarsely. She cleared her throat. “You mean the woman who just came in? Something special about her?” Oh God. She’d barely made the last sentence sound like a question.

“New in town from Santa Fe. Just got divorced a couple months ago.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Grace managed, wondering why the letters on the postcard were starting to blur.

“It’s sad, actually. She was married for...I think it was forty years? About as long as you and--” Julia coughed. “Anyway, then she found out her wife had been cheating on her for decades.” She lowered her voice even more. “With a _man._ Her law partner.”

Whoa. Even a stone cold WASP could be shocked by that. Ending a long marriage was a nightmare all on its own--what would such an added betrayal be like? “Jesus Christ,” Grace muttered, in spite of herself.

Clearly satisfied by her reaction, Julia nodded and folded her arms. “We’re trying to make her feel welcome. I invited her to the reading yesterday, and she seemed into it. What were you saying? You have plans? That’s a sha--”

“Plans?” Grace said, willing her heart to slow down so it wouldn’t beat so loudly in her ears. “I don’t believe I said I had plans. I’ll have to see if I can make it.”

Julia blinked. Before she could say anything, though, the woman bypassed the line to approach the counter.

Grace held her breath, which was just ridiculous.

“‘Scuse me,” the woman said to the wan young man at the head of the line. “Not cutting in, I swear.”

If Grace had expected a breathy, whispery voice to go along with the will-o-the-wisp vibe, she was disappointed. The woman spoke in a rumbling alto, a voice just this side of masculine, strangely appealing when it came from such a femme. A voice like that demanded attention, and she was getting it in spades as the shop’s patrons kept glancing at her.

She appeared not to notice, patted the young man’s shoulder, and addressed the barista. “I’m here to speak to Marina about putting some artwork up in here. Is she around? This is Frankie.”

 _Frankie._ The postcard bent in Grace’s grip. _This is Frankie._

Upon closer inspection, Frankie’s hair was pulled back by two plaits that sat atop the rest of her mane. Grace could see gray weaving in and out of the dark brown. It was fluffy and curly and fell past her shoulders. Hair like that was trouble in bed. It always got in your face, caught in your mouth, had to be pulled back, but you could grab whole handfuls of it during a passionate kiss.

“Yo, Marina,” the barista called. She was a very young girl with purple highlights, a nose ring, and a forearm tattoo that read “we keep ourselves alive” in flowing script. “Somebody’s here to see you.”

“Frankie,” Frankie repeated. She bounced on the balls of her clog-clad feet and drummed her fingers against the countertop.

Marina appeared from the back room, stocky and butch, wiping her big hands on a dish towel. “Yeah? Oh, hi.” She gave Frankie a warm smile. “Glad you showed up. Give me a couple seconds?”

“No, that’s great.” Frankie waved her hands. The bangles on her wrists clinked together. “I was gonna ask if you wanted me to bring a couple of my paintings in. I got ‘em in my trunk.” She slapped the counter and laughed, a merry gurgle. “Like junk in the trunk. But with art.”

 _No,_ Grace commanded herself. _New In Town is Bad News. Just look at her. She’s wearing clogs, she’s wearing bangles, she’s an artist, for Christ’s sake._

Marina replied, “Sure, bring them in. I’ll be right out. Five minutes.”

“Fantastic!”

Marina returned whence she’d come, and Frankie darted back toward the door without a single look behind her. She nearly knocked over an empty chair and patted it, as if in apology.

“Can I help you?” the barista asked, and Grace realized the wan young man had been served and it was her turn to order.

Five minutes. Grace had to get back to the office. Five minutes. Brianna was waiting. Five minutes. Grace had a life, a very well-ordered and established life, one where she was quite comfortable alone, sans frizzy-haired artistic lesbians and bead curtains and local artwork--

The bell rang again as Frankie exited the shop. The sunlight caught on the silver strands of her hair as she turned right and disappeared down the block, presumably to fetch her junk from the trunk. For a moment, Grace saw the upturned profile of her nose.

“Two drip coffees to go,” she heard herself say to the barista, instead of the nonfat cappuccino and the red eye she’d come here to order. “One small, one extra large.”

“Yeah?” The barista smiled as she rang up the order. “Bree still mainlines the caffeine?”

Was there one gay girl in southern California who didn’t have a crush on Grace’s elder daughter? You’d think the parade of bearded boyfriends would send the message. Brianna loved it, of course, the attention and the trail of broken hearts that she did not _explicitly_ encourage.

“She does. I’m kind of in a hurry,” Grace said. “Uh, leave room for cream in the small one.”

Julia patted her shoulder. Grace started--she’d completely forgotten-- “See you Saturday, maybe,” Julia said, and returned to the too-small table of gawkers.

“Maybe,” Grace murmured to herself, and even summoned a smile for the barista when presented with two paper cups in cardboard sleeves.

She paused on the way to the door, took a deep breath, and removed the plastic lid from her own cup. They’d left room for cream, all right--the cup was barely three-quarters full. That was fine, actually. This was also the first time she’d been grateful that Friendly Bean didn’t brew their coffee hot enough.

 _You idiot,_ she thought, gingerly elbowing the door open. The bell jingled. _This blouse cost three hundred dollars and you’ll never find another one like it. St. John changed their whole direction this season._

As Grace exited Friendly Bean, the shop’s music switched to a wistful-sounding child singing “Hey there” to someone named Delilah. Obviously, the barista was picking the soundtrack these days.

It was a hot July afternoon, with more humidity than Grace was used to, reminding her of childhood summers in Greenwich. She glanced to the right and saw a silver Nissan Leaf parallel parked in a loading zone three cars down. It sat at least a foot and a half away from the curb. The trunk door was open, and a waist-high canvas rested against the right rear wheel while Frankie rummaged inside.

It was easier to see Frankie’s shape when she was bent over. The blouse and skirt drifted down to drape over a slender waist, curved hips, and the kind of ass Grace could appreciate on other women. Of course, she must be around Grace’s age, it wasn’t like there was a twenty-year-old’s body hiding under there--and yet Grace’s grip tightened on the coffee cups while her mouth went dry.

 _Just divorced. Shattered trust. Broken heart. Handle with care,_ her common sense wailed at her. _She’ll be a fucking train wreck._

Well, it wasn’t like Grace didn’t come with her own baggage, but no card carrying lesbian could look at her and think she was a closet heterosexual. At least she had that to offer.

That, and about three decades’ worth of pent up lust roaring through her like lava breaking through the frozen summit of a volcano.

Lesbian bed death was a thing. She and Pat had barely touched each other for over a year before they’d called it quits. There had been no one since. Grace had told herself she didn’t miss it. She was busy, she was sensible, and she was far too old to think with her clitoris.

Apparently life was just full of little surprises.

As Grace approached, her high heels clicking on the sidewalk, Frankie straightened up just enough to bang her head on the trunk door. She growled, “Son of a fuck shit,” and dropped another, smaller canvas on the ground. “Ow. Goddamn it.”

She rubbed her head and stepped back onto the sidewalk without looking behind her, and Grace hadn’t even needed to plan it. They’d have collided anyway if she’d just kept walking. Frankie bumped into her elbow, and Grace barely managed to step back enough so that she didn’t fall flat on her ass and break a hip in the process.

The coffee sloshed out of her cup right on schedule, soaking into her white St. John blouse, and Grace didn’t have to fake a yelp. But as she’d known, the coffee wasn’t hot enough to burn, and the cup hadn’t been filled to the brim. Minimal damage, all things considered.

Frankie whirled around. She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God! Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s all,” Grace said, and went blank. All these decades she’d thought _lost in your eyes_ was a sappy cliche. Frankie’s eyes, unadorned with mascara and surrounded by stubby gray lashes, were clear and bright and blue.

Sensible and orderly? Who the hell needed that? Grace sure didn't. Grace needed that full mouth, and those little ears, and the explosive smile she'd seen back in the shop. The back seat of this car wouldn't hurt, either.

Frankie clearly had different ideas about Grace's needs. She was flying into fuss mode, her head bobbing up and down like an owl’s while she tried to look at the damage to Grace’s blouse. “Oh crabcakes, maybe I can get it out. I have this amazing salt scrub.” She took hold of Grace’s blouse near the waist, rubbing the silk between her thumbs and forefingers. “Uh...I can work with this. Maybe. Of course, you’d have to lend me your blouse. Do you have another one? Like a spare? Probably not, huh?”

“No,” Grace croaked. Frankie’s fingertips were only one thin layer of silk from her skin. She had close-clipped fingernails. Perfect for…well, everything that mattered. Grace swallowed hard and sounded steadier when she said, “I don’t usually take my blouse off until I know a woman’s name.”

“I’m Frankie,” Frankie said, still eyeing the coffee stains. Then she blinked. “You what? Oh.” She let go of the blouse and raised her eyes to look into Grace’s for the first time.

For seconds that she failed to count, the only moving part of Grace was her heart slamming in her chest. The rest of her felt rooted to the sidewalk, the coffee cups still glued to her hands, not even a stray breeze to stir her hair. She couldn’t breathe.

Frankie seemed frozen, too. Her lips parted. She blushed.

“Wow,” she mumbled.

Grace sucked in a breath. It felt like the first she’d taken in years. It seemed to whack some sense into Frankie too, who choked, “I mean, wow, look what I did to--to--here, why don’t you let me take those?” She took Grace’s coffee cups with hands that trembled a little, just enough to make Grace worry she’d hurt herself too, spill hot coffee directly on that gorgeous skin.

She wore oversized rings on nearly every finger. Up close, Grace could see that the pendant in her red necklace was a bear fetish. She could be Santa Fe personified.

Meanwhile, Grace was pure Manhattan, and she knew it. Both of them were out of place on this street, in this town, in this part of the country. And yet the three feet surrounding them seemed like a space that was uniquely theirs, just where they were supposed to be.

Frankie set the coffee cups on the sidewalk and straightened up with a slight grunt. She couldn’t seem to look at Grace. “Sorry,” she repeated.

“It’s fine. Really. At least it didn’t spill on your lovely…” Grace’s gaze traveled to the painting propped up against the Leaf, and then the one lying on the ground near Frankie’s feet.

“Vaginas,” she said faintly.

 _"Excuse_ me?” Frankie’s rose into a high pitch, but Grace was too transfixed by the canvases to care. There was no mistaking the paintings for anything else. In the center of one was a bright red whorl that faded out to pink and then peach, the colors growing cooler until they reached a deep ocean blue at the canvas’s edge. Surrounding the whorl were oval lips. Where a clitoris should be there sat a woman’s face--Frankie’s face, clearly, though younger--and from the woman’s head spilled dark, curly hair that surrounded the lips.

 _Carpet matches the drapes,_ Grace’s inner voice piped up helpfully. She shushed it at once, but it was too late. It had derailed her train of thought enough for her to blurt, “Is this yours?”

Silence.

“Your painting,” Grace said, her voice a little strangled as she kept focusing on the colors of the canvas. “These are both your paintings. Right?”

“Oh!” Frankie gasped. Grace looked at her again, to see that her face had gone bright red and she was clutching her necklace. “Right! Yeah, of course they are. My paintings. I’m just bringing them to that coffee shop over there.” She glanced at the coffee cups on the sidewalk. “Oh. I guess you must have been in there. That’s weird, I didn’t see you.” She looked at Grace, her face still red. “I can’t believe I didn’t see you.”

Grace felt her own face heat.

“Because you’re tall!” Frankie added. “I usually notice tall women. I mean, tall people in general. I come from a petite family.” She let go of the necklace in order to fiddle with one of her rings, a large black stone. Onyx?

Her left ring finger was bare, but Grace could see the paler stretch of skin where a wedding band must have sat for quite a long time. Her heart twinged, even as the darker part of her personality bared its teeth in a triumphant grin.

_Down, girl. Down._

“You must be from out of town,” she said. “I know most of the people around here.” _Most of the lesbians,_ she meant, but that hardly needed clarification. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“I just got in a few weeks ago. Found one of those ‘extended stay’ type places.  I’m thinking about moving here for a...change of scene. I don’t know, though.” Frankie switched to another ring, a turquoise in the shape of a flower. She rubbed her thumb around the raised bud in the center. Over and over. “It’s a different vibe than I’m used to.”

“Well, it’s a friendly place for artists.” Grace managed not to look at the vaginal paintings again. Or at Frankie’s thumb, which had started rubbing faster while Frankie looked at Grace’s mouth. “Do you paint professionally?”

“Sort of. On the side, really.” Frankie bit her lip and looked down at her feet. Her thumb stopped rubbing. “You could say I get my main income from somewhere else.”

The bitterness was unmistakable. If that didn’t scream _fat divorce settlement,_ nothing did, and Grace ordered herself to slow down once again. Have a little sensitivity. “I see.”

“Yeah.” Frankie’s gaze raked Grace up and down, taking in not just the stained blouse, but the striped navy blazer and pressed white slacks, the nude heels. This time, she fidgeted with the strings of the tie on her peasant blouse. Grace could see a delicate hint of collarbone beneath. “You seem like kind of a fancy lady, even if I did cover you in java. Don’t suppose you paint, too?”

 _Depends on your definition,_ Grace didn’t say, _I’m a motherfucking artist with my tongue._ “I don’t. I run a beauty company. Our headquarters are just a couple of blocks from here.”

“A beauty company?” Frankie’s face lit up, making Grace’s heart stutter in the process. “Like a local place? I’ve been looking for one of those. I left my favorite face cream at ho...behind, and I can’t find anything here that has the right proportion of vanilla to orchid extract.”

Grace pursed her lips in thought. Frankie stared at her mouth again. “Well,” Grace said, “We don’t make anything with orchid, but I could recommend something from Guerlain.”

“Gurlan? I thought that was a village in Tibet. But that’s cool, sure, I’d love a suggestion, so what’s your company called? And you? What are you called? Named. I mean, what’s your name? I’m Frankie.” Frankie held out her hand. Then her blue eyes widened. “Did I say that already?”

Grace took her hand. Her small, warm, soft hand. Their palms slid into a perfect fit, two jigsaw pieces coming together.

For a second, they both looked at their joined hands. Then Grace remembered they were supposed to be shaking them, so she did. 

“I’m Grace,” she said.

“Grace.” It came out of Frankie’s mouth in a sigh. Her eyes had glazed over a little. Her mouth widened in a downright dreamy smile.

And Grace didn’t believe in premonitions, but she saw clear as day what was about to happen: a future of aromatherapy, mood rings, and lunar rituals. Probably a fuckton of marijuana too, if that little plastic bag in Frankie’s trunk was any indication. There would be screaming arguments, gay gossip, ex-wife drama, and running commentary from Grace’s daughters about the whole thing.

It would also be a future of coming home after a long day at work and resting her weary head between Frankie’s thighs, then resting it on her shoulder afterward as they fell asleep. Not a moment of it stony, silent, or cold.

She hadn’t earned this luck, but she was taking it anyway.

“I’m still shaking your hand,” Frankie observed, accurately. She didn’t stop.

Neither did Grace. “I don’t mind,” she said. “Tell me: how do you feel about poetry readings?”

Frankie raised an eyebrow. Her mouth took on a sly curve. “Depends. Are they pretentious, elitist crap, or open mic nights where I get to harmonize with Frank Ocean on backbeat?”

Grace grinned. It looked like a poetry free dinner at the Marine Room was in her future too. Saturday night, specifically. But for now, she’d help Frankie carry the paintings back to Friendly Bean, where she’d take the opportunity to get a much closer look at them.

It never hurt to read the map ahead of time.

“Welcome to California, Frankie,” she said.

“Thank you, Grace.” Frankie didn’t let go of her hand. “I’m glad I came.”

 

**FIN.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.


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